


Scripture

by LithiumDoll



Category: Constantine (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-02
Updated: 2005-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-12 19:03:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5677084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LithiumDoll/pseuds/LithiumDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: All characters belonging to DC / Vertigo / etc.<br/>Set: Pre-movie<br/>Note: One-shot<br/>Feedback: Treasured</p>
    </blockquote>





	Scripture

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters belonging to DC / Vertigo / etc.  
> Set: Pre-movie  
> Note: One-shot  
> Feedback: Treasured

Incense hangs in the church; the bittersweet scent of righteous damnation coiling in thin wisps around his ankles. A woman kneels on a pew at the front, head bowed and hands clenching so tightly they shake. Maybe she's praying, maybe she's just holding on.

He hasn't made the service, but that's the least of his sins and, honestly, he prefers the place when it's empty. There's no pressing hope, no thinly disguised desperation to crowd against him. No wings, no horns, no searing touch of forgiveness ripped away with the promised body and blood that's only ever wafer and wine.

Or actual body and blood, that one time. Thanks, Balth.

Candles run as he slips into the confessional box, wicks flicker and wax glints until he pulls the door in and seals the sacred space. Then there's only darkness and the rasping silence of slightly too laboured breath. He'll give up smoking one day.

His knees hit the familiar dents in the pad and feel the hard wood below. Comfort, but not too much comfort, and the guilt of wishing it was softer: Catholicism in a frayed cushion.

The figure behind the ornate grating is a shadow in shadows and it speaks in a murmur, words so old and repeated they aren't heard they're felt like erosion.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been six days since my last confession. I have been proud, I have been lazy. I have worshipped false idols, I have been greedy, I have stolen, I have lied. I have killed. I…"

"John..."

"I'm not finished."

"John, why do you do this?"

"Aren't you supposed to know?"

"Every week, John. Why?"

"Because I'm a sinner."

"You are. Yes, you are. And you'll find no forgiveness this way, not for a mortal sin."

The old injustice and he will see it set equal because the little fights are all he has left to win and even the bible has loopholes. "'If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from _all_ unrighteousness'."

"'And without faith it is impossible to please God, because anyone who comes to him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who earnestly seek him'. Even the Devil can quote scripture, John. John, are you listening?"

He is listening and the words buzz like flies around the anger. He speaks through it, stubbornness giving certainty where faith can't. "I believe."

" _You_ don't have to _believe_."

And then it's quiet again as his centre returns and shows him where the alligators live. His teeth grind, not in outrage but in mortification. 'Pride,' a conscience whispers. 'Fuck you,' he whispers back.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned."

The voice is stronger now, and so amused. "So quickly?"

"I had impure thoughts."

"Wicked thoughts?"

"Fit for a devil."

"Are you the judge of that, my son?"

"I'm not yours yet, Lu. Patience."

The Devil laughs, soft and knowing. "Is a virtue. I don't have any of those; it's in the job description. I'll be seeing you, John."

Silence. He pushes the door open a crack but he waits. He waits until the candles begin to run again, and then he stands. The incense follows him to the street, clings until the damp fog of a wet November eats it away.

A match is struck and flares and it's a tiny piece of hell on earth as he lights a tar stick and drags in a lungful of smoke that's sweeter than any incense and more compelling than any communion. He laughs out the smoke and flips the flame the bird until it burns down to nothing.

"Constantine. Asshole."


End file.
